A philosopher once observed that life is lived forward, but it can only be understood by looking backward. Life isn’t a problem that can be solved, he claimed, but a reality to be experienced. And while past experience may give us insights into the challenges we may face in the future, we can really only see how those challenges, and the ways we respond to them, fit into the mosaic of our individual lives by looking back during periods of introspection and reflection.
There are times in life when we discover ourselves at momentous crossroads. We make decisions that affect our future path and the paths of others. But sometimes we don’t even see those roads ahead of us because we don’t understand that they are there.
We often define the course our lives take in physical terms, measuring our path and our progress by the tread of our feet. Sometimes we don’t even see the most important paths we travel because those paths exist in our minds. Our actual progress isn’t measured just in the physical distance that we traverse, but in the way that we choose to travel that distance.
I stood at such a crossroads about ten years ago, as I embarked on my sixteenth year of life, barely aware of the opportunities that lay in front of me because I was entirely focused on the physical path I was about to travel . . . and on the unfair and arbitrary manner in which my life had been set on that path.
I was confronted with the destruction of everything I had been building for the past fifteen years, six weeks, and two days of my life. The destruction was arbitrary because I had no say in the decision. It was unfair because . . . because it just was. It was deeply unfair!
I had been naively happy with what I had already accomplished in my life. I had achieved a lot in just over fifteen years and I had been looking forward to building on those accomplishments. I had thought I was on a path with a comfortable future ahead of me . . . and suddenly I wasn’t.
It felt like the stable life I had been building was shattered by forces outside my control. Everything I had achieved felt now like exercises in futility. All the waypoints I had mapped out as I planned my coming journey into adulthood were now obscured by an impenetrable haze of uncertainty. The welcome sign to my bright future was lost in that fog. In its place was a giant green sign standing at the side of the Interstate Highway that read “Welcome to Vermont”. We were confronted with the awareness that there was now no turning back.
We make our way forward to the best of our ability. Someday we may look back and wonder about what might have been if we had made different choices—or if different choices had been made for us! But we still end up where our feet—and our minds—have taken us. That’s life!
It was mid-August and hot. For almost two hours we had endured the boredom of the endless greenway surrounding I-91, disrupted by occasional road signs advertising an upcoming exit or providing information about the distance to various cities and towns ahead. I’m sure they might have been at least somewhat interesting to someone who cared.
But as we had travelled eastward from Darien, across southern Connecticut, turned north onto I-91 at New Haven, drove on past Hartford and Manchester, then past the signs for that last bastion of civilization, Springfield, Massachusetts— and if you’ve ever visited Springfield, you know that characterization is charitable— past Holyoke, Northampton, Deerfield and Greenfield—getting VERY rural here from the sound of it—we found ourselves venturing into territory that might not have been visited by advanced life forms for many generations.
My companions on this dangerous mission into the unknown were: my father, our fearless captain, at the helm of our brand new, jet black 2014 Chevy Tahoe suburban assault vehicle, essential equipment for any well-heeled Connecticut suburbanites venturing into the wilderness; my mother, sitting next to him, our navigator and ship’s counselor on this mission; my older sister Rachel, perhaps our science officer, with an avid and cynical interest in the local life forms that we might encounter; and my younger sister Cara, mission status undefined, but occasional entertainment officer when a song she knew came on the radio and she was able to sing in something approximating the proper key. Me? I was no more than unwilling cargo. It wasn’t like I had any control over what was happening to me!
We would have been, perhaps, a decent crew for a scouting mission. But we weren’t on a reconnaissance. We had arrived in this dismal place as colonizers. God help us!
The previous four weeks had been filled with sturm and drang in the Donnelly household. My father’s employer, Apex Predators, had unexpectedly decided in mid-July that they needed someone of upper management status to supervise their acquisition of a new production facility in some rural town in southeastern Vermont, rustically—and unappealingly—called East Grange.
Dad was ambitious. He leapt at the opportunity to take charge of the operation and make a real impact on a high-profile project for the company. In leaping, he dragged all of us with him.
Dad could barely wait until the weekend. He was on the phone every waking moment with Vermont real estate agents as soon as he was assured of the assignment. He got home early from work on Friday and he and Mom hopped in the Beamer and headed north to scout out prospective living arrangements for the family. Rachel, Cara and I spent the weekend with Nana.
It was a depressing three days. Each of us was lost in our own unsettled thoughts, considering the ways in which our lives were being suddenly and ruthlessly upended.
Rachel had been looking forward to her senior year of high school and sharing the experience with lifelong friends before heading off to college and embracing her future. Her life might only be changing for a year, but she would be denied sharing the pinnacle of her entire youth with her closest friends. It was a bitter pill for her to swallow.
Cara, at nine, had shallower roots in Darien. But they were just as important to her. She had her growing circle of friends, her youth soccer team, and a burgeoning talent as a pianist that she and her teachers had been developing since she was five. It was likely a credit to her social confidence that her biggest concerns were whether they even had soccer and pianos in Vermont.
They say we are each the author of our own drama—or tragedy, as the case may be. And as authors we have our personal biases. But for me, it felt like this move would land the most devastating blow directly on me. Until I started seventh grade, three years previously, I had been mostly a bookworm with the esoteric interests that are often typical of the socially maladaptive. Science fiction was probably my greatest passion, but also collectible card games, certain kinds of anime, and really anything that didn’t demand a firm foundation in reality.
Then as my body started to mature during the summer I turned twelve, my coordination actually improved, and I discovered that my natural foot speed and willingness to work hard to develop skills, helped to make me a soccer player that attracted an awful lot of favorable attention. That was actually pretty intimidating at first. Eventually I discovered that I liked it.
At about the same time, the sudden onset of changes in physical and emotional development led to new social interests—interests that turned out, now that we were in the twenty-first century in Connecticut, to be far less socially disqualifying than I had feared. For the first time in my life I was actually popular. And among a certain clique, that popularity seemed to signal boundless new social opportunities.
During my freshman year in high school, I was actually a member of our varsity soccer team and started at midfield in more than half of our games. It was a bit discomfiting—but still a real boost to my confidence—to hear my name mentioned in some newspapers as one of the more promising young high school players in the state. The recognition in the community added to my social status in the school. I had even been asked by several different people to run for a class officer position.
My other social interests were also growing. I hadn’t committed to anything, but my status was known and it actually increased respect for me in many circles. It was strange to have so many people who wanted to be my friend.
And now all of that was gone. I had just about reached the pinnacle of social success and suddenly found myself whisked away to spend the next three years in exile. I would be starting my life all over again. If I was lucky, I might get back to the same status I had enjoyed in Darien by my senior year . . . assuming that young men with certain less common social interests were even welcome in Vermont. And more importantly, did they even have soccer there?
Nana did her best to cheer us up and help us to see the positive side of our fate. It really wasn’t fair of us to ask her to be so upbeat. She had her own stress. In addition to having her only daughter and her family suddenly moving several hours away, Nana’s health seemed to be declining. For a while we had noticed that she seemed a bit depressed and that she was occasionally forgetful and not fully aware of everything going on around her. She might have been having some circulation problems, too. She was always complaining that she felt too hot or too cold.
I’m sure it didn’t help that Nana was living alone. Grandpa had passed away about a year previously, the victim of a delayed mid-life crisis and a handful of credit card receipts whose purpose was so transparent that even our sweet and naïve Nana couldn’t be deceived. His name was no longer spoken within the Marino family. My Uncle Frank, the eldest son, had actually considered changing his own name so that the echo of his father’s name wouldn’t have to be spoken in his mother’s presence. Even my mother, Grandpa’s only daughter, was bound by the omerta.
But Nana put our interests first, ignored her own troubles, and encouraged us to anticipate the good things that could come out of this move. She fed us, because that’s what grandmothers do. She indulged us, also part of the job description. And she made time to talk with us, together and separately, about our concerns and fears.
Nana made sure that we all understood that we really weren’t moving too far away. East Grange was only a two-and-a-half-hour drive up I-95 and I-91, followed by a forty or forty-five minute drive through the godforsaken back country of southeastern Vermont.
Well, Nana didn’t say that it was godforsaken. She said it had lovely scenery. But really, it was the same thing.
Nana reminded us that we would be close enough to Darien to come back and visit her and our friends several times each year. And she had heard rumors that there was cell service in that part of Vermont. If there wasn’t, there were still telephone landlines and dial-up internet service. For Nana, that was pretty advanced technology. We would still be able to stay in touch with the people that mattered to us.
Nana patiently answered our questions and tried to calm our fears about the move. No, parents in Vermont didn’t arrange marriages for their children. (I’m pretty sure Rachel already knew that. She was just going overboard on the drama.) No, bears weren’t allowed to wander freely through the towns there. (It didn’t seem likely. But better to be safe than find out when it was too late.) Yes, there really were pianos in Vermont. (They even used to manufacture them in a town called Brattleboro, if you can believe that! About the pianos. . . I think everyone has at least heard of Brattleboro, Vermont.) Yes, southeastern Vermont belonged to the Federation of Planets just like the rest of earth. (No. I didn’t ask that. I think Nana was starting to get overwhelmed by our hysteria and thought a little sarcasm might bring something positive to the conversation— for at least one of us.) It didn’t calm all our anxiety. But it did help.
Later Nana drew me aside for a few private words.
“You know how special you are to me, honey,” Nana said. “Your parents named you after me.”
“I know, Nana.” It might not be cool for someone who had just turned fifteen, but I leaned into her comforting arm. “It means a lot to me, too. But I am real glad that they decided to go with ‘Ross’ instead of ‘Catherine’.”
Nana’s eyes twinkled. I saw a thought glimmering there before she aborted it. Nana was just too old school to attempt humor about certain things.
“I know that all three of you are struggling with this move, Ross.” Nana looked a bit pensive. “To tell you the truth, I’m struggling too. I’m really going to miss seeing the three of you so often. But Alan has a real opportunity in Vermont. Appleton-Price is a huge company. There are a lot of people competing to get to the top of the corporate ladder there. Heading up this new acquisition will give your father the chance to stand out and distinguish himself from the competition.” I’m sure it was a reasonable argument. “But what about me, Nana? I have opportunities here in Darien. And Rachel and Cara do, too . . . ” I didn’t want to seem too self-centered.
“You do, Ross,” Nana’s eyes were filled with compassion. “But your father earns the money that feeds you all, clothes you all, keeps a roof over your heads, pays for all those fancy electronic things that you kids love, and someday will pay to send you all to college. It isn’t fair. But it’s the way the world works. The parents decide what’s best for the entire family and the kids go where the parents go.”
I wasn’t ready to admit it, but I knew she was right. I just wished I didn’t have to sacrifice everything I had accomplished in my life so far to turn my parents’ vision of a better future for our family into a reality.
Nana reached up and pulled a photograph off the shelf behind me. I cringed a bit when I saw that she was holding a picture of my family that was taken the summer of my eleventh birthday. The short, scrawny boy with his antisocial nose buried in a sci fi paperback while the rest of the family smiled broadly for the camera was a painful reminder of things I had been trying to forget.
“You’ve come a long way since that day, Ross. You worked hard and you accomplished a lot of things, things that made your whole family proud.” Nana smiled gently as she replaced the photo on its shelf. “But maybe things have started to get easy for you. You’re popular. You have lots of friends. It would be easy to just keep living like you are now.”
The expression on Nana’s face went from proud and wistful to something much harder in an instant. The change made me uncomfortable.
“Sometimes life becomes too easy, Ross. We need new challenges to help us grow and to bring out the best in us.” Her gaze was challenging me. “You’re a good person, Ross. And you’ve accomplished a lot of good things so far in your life. But to keep growing, you need to confront new challenges. Meeting and besting them will make you a stronger and better person when you’re done.”
“Doing things that are hard will give you the opportunity to find out what sort of person you are today.” Nana latched onto my arm with a firm grip. “Are you a person who wants to spend his whole life just living comfortably? Someone who goes along to get along, just because it’s the easy thing to do? Or do you want to grow as a person, construct a strong moral compass and become self-reliant and capable of doing difficult things, sometimes unpopular things, because they are the right thing to do?”
When did my dear, sweet Nana turn into a powerful—and slightly demented—motivational speaker? A Navy SEAL in a comfortable floral housecoat exhorting listeners to be all that they can be? Oh yeah! Grandpa. That man’s character flaws were messing with an awful lot of lives here.
“Ross, honey,” Nana was getting ready to close her case. “You might not be able to control all the things that happen in your life, but you can control the kind of person that you become. And you can become an even better person than you are today. You can do it if you’re determined to try!”
And with a tender pat to the side of my face and a cheery smile, Nana toddled off to brew herself a cup of tea.
Abandon hope, ye who enter here. All was lost.
Really, the talk with Nana wasn’t all bad. It might not have inspired me entirely in the way she intended, but I did think a lot about her words in the coming months. She made a good point when she said that I had achieved a lot in the past few years. And I was pretty sure I could do it again. I just didn’t want to have to. My conflict between doing the easy thing and doing the right thing was probably the point that Nana was making about ‘personal growth’.
When I wasn’t busy spending time with Nana, Rachel and Cara, I was on my phone with friends, saying goodbye and complaining about how unfair my life was. Yeah, mostly complaining.
Like Nana, my friends had advice. It just wasn’t quite as inspiring as Nana’s pep talk. My buddy Rafe really got my attention when he pointed out that there would probably be a lot more ’phobes in a place like Vermont that was so far removed from civilization. There would certainly be a lot more than there were in Darien. Rafe was a bit of a science wiz, and he had it all down to a formula: intensity of homophobia is in inverse proportion to the number of teeth that people have. And Rafe was pretty sure that modern dentistry hadn’t arrived yet in rural Vermont.
Late Sunday afternoon, Mom and Dad returned from their trip to Vermont with the news that they had already made an offer on the perfect place for us to live. If the offer was accepted, we had a new home! Wasn’t that exciting?!
Reality was starting to set in. And no, it wasn’t exciting.
July ended. Mom and Dad’s mood remained positive. Cara was becoming high strung and unusually tense. I had the feeling that Rachel was scheming.
Darien High School soccer camp opened on the day that August arrived. I had been so looking forward to being there. Instead, I spent that entire day in bed with a sheet pulled up over my head. It felt right.
I didn’t even have the heart to call Coach Dogherty to explain to him why I wouldn’t be at soccer camp. I think he may have called us that evening. There was an incoming call, a brief conversation, and a very final “I’m sorry, coach” on our end of the line. Life as I knew it felt one step closer to its end.
The mood in our house was tense—bordering on hostility—in the days that followed. Dad escaped with frequent overnight trips to the plant in Vermont. Mom was left to deal with the restless natives.
There were the usual accusations of parents wanting to destroy our lives. Rachel upped the ante a bit, suggesting that our move was intended to destroy our beloved Nana’s life!
I could sense Mom’s frustration as she tried to be supportive of Rachel, despite the histrionics. She gently pointed out that Nana had been living alone for the past year and was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. If she needed occasional help, Frank Jr., Vince and Joey, and their families, were still in the Darien area.
“You really don’t know, do you?” Rachel persisted, pressing a bit harder than might have been prudent. “While you and Dad were off shopping in Vermont,” she sneered, “we spent three days with Nana. Sometimes she was confused. She even had trouble remembering Ross’ name!”
I didn’t remember that. But who was I to interrupt and spoil a good story?
Rachel was fired up and getting into her pitch. “One minute Nana was complaining about the heat, then she was too cold the next minute. She isn’t well! If you and Dad are determined to abandon your own mother, go ahead and take Ross and Cara off to Vermont. But let me stay here to take care of her!” She glared defiantly at Mom.
Mom sighed and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, like maybe she was looking for patience . . . or a club. “Listen to me, Rachel. Women have been going through menopause for years, were still able to take care of themselves while it was happening, and could still kick ass when it was over. If you keep this up, I may give you a little ‘before’ demonstration, then follow it up with the ‘after’ demonstration in a few years, after I’ve gone through the change. Now knock it off! We are all going to Vermont. And we will support your father.”
Amidst the uproar, I clung to Nana’s words, trying to figure out what sort of person I wanted to become. Would I continue to follow the easy and comfortable path I had established for my life? Or would I become more mature, determine to face new challenges, support my parents, establish a firm moral compass instead of one driven by selfish desires? In short, was I going to make myself into a better person?
I found myself wishing that Nana had never said anything to me. Sigh!
The weeks were a depressing flurry of activity. Furniture and personal possessions were packed into shipping containers in preparation for loading onto a moving van. Our house was thoroughly cleaned for future sale or lease. Friends dropped by for solemn or teary farewells.
Right up to the final day, Rachel continued to push my parents to change their minds, or at least to let her stay in Darien. Rachel and I didn’t often get along, but I was rooting for her. If we all stayed, that would be perfect! If we went but Rachel stayed, that would be a good outcome for me, too.
But Mom and Dad wouldn’t budge. This was too good an opportunity for Dad. And it would benefit all of us. If there were a few challenges along the way, that would be good! It was an opportunity for personal growth! My parents said it would build character. I said it was child abuse.
We prepared to cut off all contact with civilization. Mom and dad purchased a brand new 2014 Chevy Tahoe. The old family SUV was traded in. The Beamer was put into temporary storage. The date set for our departure was drawing inexorably closer. I found myself contemplating how a prisoner must feel in the days before his scheduled execution.
On the evening of August 14 we loaded the suburban assault vehicle with our gear and provisions, prepared to leave early the following morning. The mission was a ‘go’. Confidence was high in some circles.
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